Weird Eyes!

Tue 13th Feb. 2018

1.44pm

Weird thing going on with my eyes. was at the checkout at wanky Morrisons, buying veg for a stew, when it was as if I’d looked at something small but very bright (I’m not sure that I did), a bright glinting reflection or something. Dazzled me just at the point of focus – my fovea. Seemed to be in both eyes, was horrible, I couldn’t see anything I looked directly at as I walked home.

Sort of angular circle, points pointing out. It has slowly migrated outwards from the centre as I got home. Looking at a dark background I can see there are colours – blue, yellow, possibly others. It now appears only to be in my left eye – but I did think it was also in my right as I approached home from the newsagent – where I bought a lottery ticket.

It is now an arc from about 6.30 to 9 or 10 on a clock-face. Not static, it moves within itself, as well as moving away from the centre.

I fucking don’t need this shit! This, plus the cuntishness of the wardens and stinky neighbours here – I fucking hate them all! Plus the now almost constant pain in my left wrist (arthritis? Anything to do with the archery at Tircoch in 2015 perhaps?). Also pain developing in my right thumb joint. Plus the fucking chronic itching on the unreachable parts of my back – I’ve bought FIVE different back-scratchers!

Fuck this SHIT of a life!

BRING ON MY SUICIDE! (Because that is what it seems is wanted!).

Christmas Day unedited and proof-read-short

Christmas Day 2017, 11.47am Carols from King’s beautiful on the loud new-ish HD telly (expensive but as I spend so much time watching telly a good choice – wonderful picture!) drinking bloody Mary.

Just sent a bit of a stinking email to a “friend” of mine – who hasn’t contacted me sine 11th Oct (I checked).

Carols reminding me of when me and me so-called brother Geoffrey used to sing these carols together in our separate bedrooms, in bed, as young children at Mushroom Farm. Oh god life was so much fucking better then! The snobby, stuck-up bastard refuses to allow me to be with them, my only surviving blood relatives, at Christmas, so I refuse to communicate with him – for a few years now. As of last Christmas, 2016, I heard not a fucking word from ANY of them, nor at my birthday. Fucking stuck-up C****! Not a fucking word! Nothing! Fucking unacceptable, hurts me to the fucking core! This will NEVER be forgotten! Just about to “unfriend” my two people on FB (which I have revisited for fist time since 7th Dec.). Done! (Quite sad really. They won’t even fucking notice…..)

2.30pm. Channel 4 Alternative Christmas message. By the children survivors of Grenfel Tower.

I am a puddle……………..

Life is shit.

Christmas Eve Evening

It’s Christmas Day tomorrow – in one hour and twenty-six minutes to be precise – and I may kill myself. I had planned to do this ages ago but haven’t been feeling that way recently.

But I do tonight.

Now I feel that it would be appropriate, timely, my best Christmas present to myself (and believe me, no other fucker will give me one…). Had the roast beef yesterday – it was very good, Yorkshire pudding and all. Do it early like that to leave time for all those fucking party invitations on Christmas day! (Ha fucking ha!). Fucking depressing to be alone as fucking always.

Fucking hell!

The Shepherd’s Crown

I am approaching the end of The Shepherd’s Crown. Those of you who know what I mean will know what I mean…….

And, unrelated, why does blinking Christmas last longer than our summers these days!?

Monday 30th October 2017

Late up on a cold sunny day. Very depressed following the shittiness of three Dobunni members re their narrow-mindedness about “Cultural Appropriation”.

Went for a walk down by the Brue. Not been there for ages. Walked upstream from the weir. Never walked up that way before. The river is canalised there and not a proper river at all. Downstream is much better. But the water surface was glassy, beautifully reflecting the cold blue sky with cirrus cloud.

Bumped into a couple of anglers. They were after perch with small lures. They caught a few from a shoal directly above the weir, as I found on my return walk.
Saw a kingfisher twice (or two kingfishers once. Each.) and possibly a hen sparrowhawk.

Lovely.

It lifted my spirits. But only for a moment.

Things are not good.

And Thus It Ends

And thus it ends, I thought as I climbed the stairs to my flat. The end of the OBOD Summer Gathering 2017. As usual, a wonderful, love-filled time, that restore the batteries. Necessary nourishment that may not be known to be necessary until felt again.

Usually, as it’s only just gone 1.30pm, I would wander around Glastonbury bumping into friends who are wandering around the town themselves before setting off for their homes. But it’s raining here today and I don’t fancy wandering around in the rain. Plus my right foot trainer has developed a hole in the sole, and my foot would get wet. Also I feel tired, low energy, and perhaps need some time alone.

But, as I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to my flat, I remembered the words of Stephen Fry when he explained a well-publicised suicide attempt a few years ago. He spoke of how, despite all the good times and friends in his life, on returning home, on unlocking his front door and entering, he would always be alone there, and the unbearability of that. And that aloneness can be fatal for those of us who suffer from severe depression. I know exactly what he means. It is why I hated returning home from camps when I used to go to all of them, and how I feel now. Really, very much how I feel right now. The contrast of that aloneness with the joy and love of being with so many lovely friends, old and new. And that this aloneness, loneliness, is the norm for me and that I don’t want to have to face that and get back used to that. I am not going to kill myself now, this is not a suicide note. In many way I thought, as I filled my mug to put in the kettle to make a cup of Earl Grey tea, in many way right now it would be a good time to die. With the joy and love of this weekend still freshly coursing through my veins, before the ‘Normality” of my loneliness re-imposes itself on my life, like a deadly cold grip around my throat.

So here I sit, sipping Earl Grey, listening to “Sabbat” album by Damh the Bard (aka my good friend Dave Smith, who, with others, organises and runs the OBOD Gatherings), while I try to express my feelings here. I could cry my eyes out such that I never see again. But I don’t…

Guts

It is now Sunday 5th February 2017. I last drank alcohol on Wednesday night, last of a 6 day binge. I deliberately drank then because I knew I didn’t want to booze this weekend due to Imbolc grove tonight (which I will now miss). [I am about to go off to the toilet again as gut pains hit in AGAIN]. Intent is to stay off the booze all this month. (At home anyway).
I ate some food on Thursday after a late get up due to hangover. I didn’t want it all. Ate the rest on Friday. That was the last solid food I ate.
Yesterday, Saturday, I had two cups of tea and about a quarter of a large pot of organic live yoghurt (though it might be good for my guts, and I was ravenously hungry!). Result – on the toilet 6 or 7 times last night!
Today I am still getting gut pains, still needing to sit on the toilet. Very little comes out and it very liquid, but it still needs to come out. Despite having no food today and just one SIP of water!
Hopefully I am dying but I doubt it. I am familiar with bad guts after a number of days on the booze, but this is far far worse than ever before. This along with some fucking ear drumming curse is just too fucking much!

Stand-Up or Die: WGAF?

Stand-up Or Die

Writing with the sure knowledge that nobody is going to read this.

So. The first two attempts at stand-up comedy were far less successful than I hoped for. Maybe I’m setting too high standards for myself, but there you are. I am not far off 60 years of age now – I haven’t got time.

A large part of me wants to kill myself right here and now. No, that’s not entirely true. The mechanics of self-slaughter are not so easy as those cunts who call it ‘the easy way out’ have any fucking idea about! Fucking arseholes!

I will try some more yet. I am off to a weekend workshop called “Always Secretly Wamted to Try Stand-Up Comedy?” (the spelling mistake is not mine, by the way). I am booked into this and into a B&B in Exeter for it. The process of getting this has been an utter pile of shit! Paypal have been cunts and I will be closing my account with them as soon as the last transactions have cleared. I’m not going into details about all that.

Coupled with this is my increasing frustration and rage at the way once I get used to working with some aspect of modern technology, the fuckers go and change it! This is happening more and more and more as time progresses, especially in the last several months. I feel that the world is changing in ways I cannot put up with any more. You can’t even look at the BBC website now unless you log in! Fucking bollocks!

And the way things are going in the world appal me. The growing fascism in Britain since “brexit” is getting seriously nasty! Racism and all sorts of xenophobic and otherwise hatred is now an accepted stance it seems. A public speech by the current foreign minister (I can’t remember the turds name) has been accurately compared with chapter two of fucking Hitler’s book Mein Kampf! If things continue as they are going I can seriously see a need for armed conflict to fight for justice and to rid us of this fascism. This is no fucking joke.

To return to my more personal issues, I have been off the booze for over six months now. That the final day was my birthday has helped me to stick with it. I was actually given a cup of mead on Saturday by a good friend – why the fuck she didn’t realise I wasn’t drinking is beyond me! I was shocked. Didn’t drink it. But a large part of me is feeling I want to go back on the booze. A terrible decision if I do, from all health aspects, and financially.

But also there is the ‘who gives a fuck’ attitude. If the stand-up isn’t going to work I will kill myself. I haven’t reached that stage at all yet but I have nothing else to live for. Part of me thinks a few drinks may help loosen me up a bit – both for my performance and for socialising before and after my spot. Otherwise I tend to be like a spare prick at a wedding! Also, if I were to embrace the ‘who gives a fuck’ (WGAF) mentality in my performance, perhaps enhanced with some alcoholic lubrication, it could really help my performance! And if I’m going to die it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t work and if I fuck up and make a fool of myself! A lot of my problems come about because I don’t fully let myself go into something, I hold back. Again, I may be being too hard on myself here – I’ve only done the stand-up twice, one only before a public audience.

I can’t quite find the right words for this here and now. But if I’m going to kill myself what does it matter what I do in my stand-up attempts? Do or die. Kill or cure. WGAF? I know what I mean, and no doubt shortly after I publish this I will remember the words to express it. If I’m going to die anyway, I might as well fucking go for it in my performance – WGAF!

5th August 2016

Friday 5th August 2016. 7.40pm-ish

I feel discontent, frustrated (despite, just, you know…) full of energy, truculent. I want to go out on the town – or is it village…? Dunno. But I want to go out on the Settlement, get pissed, perhaps eat (perhaps first), get a woman and fuck her (assuming she’s up for it of course).

Just fucking let lose!

Instead I’m in here listening to The Goon Show (which is great. Sending parcels of water through the post to put out a fire in China. Evaporation is, perhaps surprisingly, the main stumbling block).

It is two years and one day since I failed to kill myself. Does this have any significance to my feelings? Not much I suspect, although I do harp (harp?) back to those times quite a bit. Some of it was good – the performing was. Amazed I actually did it – successfully.

I want the company of people. That would do. Interesting women would be good – essential eventually. Camp-type people usually include them (lots! In one way or another).

I want a woman! I want SEX!

But [edited] so won’t go out now.

NEED to get on with the stand-up stuff! At least that will get me out!

And there are women out there. Like the one on the bus (I chickened out as usual). Won’t always chicken out!

[Written on Friday 5th August 2016, but not posted until Frtiday 7th October 2016]

Fuck Me Caroline Aherne is Dead

Fuck me Caroline Aherne is dead.

She was only 52.

Younger than me.

If I ever achieve anything to the quality rhat she did I’ll be doing mighty well. The Royle Family was and remains an absolute gem!

Thank you Caroline for your wonderful contribution to life.